As for her counterfeit social security card, the foundation of her new identity, it was safely hidden inside her right shoe.
In the front seat, the two men were engaged in a low-voiced argument, possibly about her, though she couldn’t be sure since they were speaking Italian, not a language she understood.
“Where are you headed, Ms. White?” Granger asked suddenly in English.
“Nowhere in particular,” she lied, unwilling to confide in a stranger. The truth was, San Francisco was her ultimate destination. Written on that scrap of paper in her pocket was the anonymous Pacific Heights address Yelena had copied from Nevada’s file at the Appleton Institute.
He turned around to face her. “On the run, huh?”
“No,” she said quickly. Could he tell she was lying? “I took a year off between college and grad school. I’ve been bumming around, trying to see as much of the country as I can.” She’d used that story several times in the last week.
“Oh, really?”
Definitely suspicious, she thought, despite that bland expression.
“The Sierra Nevadas are well worth an extended visit,” Granger said. “Bountiful wildlife, breathtaking scenery. Plus C scSie, the area’s rich in history.”
The Italian snorted. “You have been reading the Fodor’s again.”
“But hitchhiking’s not the safest way to travel through the mountains,” Trick Granger continued, ignoring the Italian’s interruption. “Or anywhere else for that matter.”
“I know that,” she said. “The thing is, I’m running low on cash. I suppose I could call home, but I really don’t want to listen to all the I-told-you-sos. What I need is a job.”
Granger turned back to Marcello, rattling off some more Italian.
Marcello answered sharply in the same language.
“Do you know of any hotels that might have an opening on the housekeeping staff?” A waitressing job would do in a pinch, though she preferred a position with less public exposure.
“I doubt it,” Granger said. “Business is slow right now. Ski season’s over, and it’s a little early for the usual influx of warm-weather tourists.”
Disappointing but not totally unexpected. Nothing was ever easy.
Granger turned back to face her again, studying her for a moment in silence before saying, “I do know of one job opening that might interest you.”
“No,” Marcello protested.
“Yes,” Granger said.
“What are you talking about?” she asked.
“A job,” Granger said.
“In his brothel,” Marcello added.
Nevada’s stomach clenched.
“Marcello’s joking,” Granger said, though the Italian had sounded perfectly serious, even grim, and Granger didn’t seem particularly amused, either. “I recently inherited a mansion, a three-story Victorian that formerly housed a brothel—emphasis on the formerly, but—”
“No real estate agent will touch it, buried as it is under a century’s worth of grime,” Marcello said.
Granger scowled at the other man. “Century’s worth is a gross exaggeration. The mansion’s only been empty for fifty years.” He angled around to make eye contact with her again. “Marcello’s right about the grime, though.”
The Italian grunted. “Filth. Layers of it.”
“I need someone to clean the place up so I can put it on the market. I’ve had a help wanted ad running in the Nugget—that’s the local paper—for three weeks now, but no one’s applied for the job.”
“Because everyone believes the house is haunted.” Marcello met her gaze momentarily in the rearview mirror, his expression unreadable.
“Which is, of course, ridiculous,” Granger said.
“I—” Nevada started.
“Ghost stories are inevitable, I suppose,” he continued, “considering how long it’s been since the mansion was occupied.”
“Unless you count mice and spiders,” Marcello put in.
No doubt some of that abundant wildlife Granger’d been touting earlier.
“The place has been abandoned for years,” Granger said. “You have to expect—”
“I feel certain the curse has also discouraged job applicants,” Marcello said.
“Curse?” she repeated.
“Superstitious nonsense.” Granger’s laugh seemed more forced than convincing. “But in the interest of full disclosure…” He paused. “In the early 1850s one of my less illustrious ancestors, brothel owner Silas Granger, ran afoul of a Gypsy, grandmother of a young woman who died in his employ, and got himself and his family cursed. Ever since, male Grangers have been dropping like flies.”
“I thought you said the curse was nonsense.”
“It is.” Granger nodded. “The body count’s merely coincidence. Or maybe genetics.” He shrugged. “But curses make for better headlines. The mansion, Silas Granger’s former brothel, is filthy beyond description but one hundred percent curse-free. I admit it’s a dirty job, but—”
“Somebody’s got to do it,” she finished.
“You’d be well compensated.”
“How well?”
“Five hundred dollars a week.”
“I don’t know….”
“All right. Seven hundred fifty. That’s assuming you know one end of a broom from the other.”
“I’ve killed a few dust bunnies in my time.”
“Bunnies?” Confusion clouded Marcello’s voice. “These are rabbits, yes? And you kill them?”
“It’s slang,” she said, “meaning I know how to clean.”
“Is that a yes?” Granger asked.
“More like a maybe. The prospect of spiders doesn’t bother me, but I’m not crazy about mice.”
“Good,” Granger said, “because I’m not, either.”
“Nor I,” Marcello chimed in.
“Marcello works for me,” Granger explained.
“The Bellinis have served the Donatelli family for generations,” the Italian added.
“How charmingly feudal,” she said dryly.
“Unfortunately, the tradition of service doesn’t include windows,” Granger muttered.
“I am a personal assistant,” Marcello said with e Clo uttxaggerated patience, as if this were a distinction he’d explained many times in the past. “I will cook. I will garden. But I draw the line at cleaning.”
“We could really use your help, but if you’re concerned about propriety—”
Marcello launched into an impassioned flood of Italian as they entered Midas Lake, a charming little resort town, heavy on log construction and retail shops aimed at the tourist trade—handmade quilts, chainsaw sculptures of bears and eagles.
She needed the money and was tempted to take the job. But since her escape, every time she’d stopped for more than a few hours, her pursuers had caught up with her. She’d already survived two close calls, one in Chicago, the second, two nights ago in Nowheresville, Nebraska. She was afraid she might not be so lucky a third time.
On the other hand, the job sounded very low profile.
Marcello hit the red at the first of three stoplights on the main drag. Directly ahead of them, also stopped at the light, a police cruiser idled. A scruffy-looking man in the backseat repeatedly slammed his handcuffed wrists against the grillwork separating him from the officer in the driver’s seat. Blood splattered, but the prisoner was apparently too worked up to feel any pain. Under the influence, Nevada guessed.
The cop spoke into his radio, then glanced in the side mirror.
A searing pain pierced Nevada’s eyes and buried itself in her brain. “He beats his wife,” she blurted.
The babble of Italian in the front seat came to an abrupt halt. Marcello twisted around to look at her. “I beg your pardon?”
She clenched her fists so hard that her nails dug into her palms. Squeezing her eyes shut, she fought to clear her mind of the ugly images.
“She said she thought that guy in the back of the cop car was
a wife-beater. Wouldn’t surprise me any. He sure as hell looks the part.”
No! She could feel the anguished denial trying to escape, but she kept her lips tightly sealed. The prisoner wasn’t a wife-beater. At least she had no reason to think so. The cop was the one she’d been talking about. The cop was the one she’d seen in a disturbing psychic flash. The cop was the one who beat his wife.
Love taps. That was how Morgan the Orderly described what he did to his spouse. Only way to keep the bitch in line, according to him.
Love taps wasn’t really a description, though. It was an excuse. A lying excuse. And Nevada ached to set the record straight, to scream the truth at the top of her lungs the way she’d done with Morgan the Orderly.
Except that hadn’t turned out too well, had it? When she’d gone berserk, they’d stuffed her in a strait jacket and tranqued her. So unless she wanted to go back to the Institute to play guinea pig again—experimental drugs and experimental treatments, most of them with undesirable side effects—she would be smart to keep her mouth shut.
Seven hundred fifty a week for however many weeks it would have taken to clean Granger’s mansion would have given her a cushion, but it wasn’t going to happen. Marc Co hwouello was already giving her that wary look she’d come to fear. “Drop me at a truck stop,” she said. “I’ll hitch a ride from there.”
TWO
Damn it, Trick thought, what was Nevada White’s problem? She needed a job. She’d said so herself. So why turn down the one he’d offered? It didn’t make sense.
Of course, the depth of his disappointment didn’t make sense either. No, he couldn’t sell the mansion in its current condition, and yes, he’d had a hard time finding someone to whip the place into shape, but Nevada White’s rejection of his job offer was hardly the end of the world.
So she bore a passing resemblance to his ghost. Big deal. So he found her attractive. Again, big deal. Physical attraction was hardly proof positive that he’d found the perfect person to clean the mansion. More like proof positive that he hadn’t been getting any lately.
Nevertheless, he twisted around in his seat, intending to convince her to change her mind. But the second he saw her face—cheeks pale, eyes haunted, lips pressed tightly together—he jettisoned his plan. Could she have sustained internal injuries in her fall from the logging truck? “You okay?”
She nodded, but she didn’t look okay. In fact, she looked about twice as bad as he felt, and that was saying something.
“Hungry perhaps,” Marcello suggested in his native tongue.
“When did you last eat?” Trick asked.
“I don’t know,” she said. “Just drop me at the Stop ’N Go, and I’ll take it from there. Feeding me isn’t your responsibility.”
So why did he feel that her well-being rested squarely on his shoulders? Why this fierce desire to protect her? It didn’t make sense. None of it made sense. He hesitated as instinct warred with common sense. For once, common sense won out. “Head for the Stop ’N Go,” he told Marcello.
“And already he forgets our little discussion about backseat drivers,” Marcello muttered under his breath.
Trick flipped him the bird, then closed his eyes and leaned his aching head against the headrest.
Trick watched Nevada cross the parking lot toward the entrance of the truck stop restaurant. She would be all right, he told himself, but he wasn’t convinced. “Maybe we should wait to make sure she gets a ride,” he said.
Marcello shot him a sideways glance, the sort of look normally reserved for raving lunatics. “What we really should do is make a police report.”
“No,” Trick said quickly. Then, “Son of a bitch!” he swore.
“What?” Marcello asked, obviously startled by Trick’s vehemence. “What F>
“That truck.” Trick pointed to the far end of the parking lot, the section reserved for big rigs. A logging truck—the same damned logging truck Nevada had come tumbling out of—sat parked between two semis. Trick opened his door and reached for his cane.
“What are you doing?” Marcello asked.
“I intend to have a chat with a certain truck driver,” Trick said, chat being a euphemism for beating the crap out of the bastard.
“Nevada White is not your responsibility.”
“Maybe not, but the thing is, I don’t like perverts. Or bullies.”
“Then report him to the authorities.”
“The girl was right. They wouldn’t do anything. It would be her word against his. He’d get a slap on the wrist at best.” Trick slid out of his seat, balancing on his good leg as he positioned his cane. Then he slammed his door shut and struck out across the parking lot. A man with a cane could move pretty fast, especially when driven by anger.
Marcello followed, almost running to catch up. “This is crazy,” he said. “You do not even know if the girl’s story was true.”
“It was,” Trick said with conviction.
“You cannot be certain of that,” Marcello argued.
“Okay, fine,” Trick said. “No problem. I’ll let the slimy son of a bitch tell his side before I beat the crap out of him.”
Marcello ran in front of Trick, forcing him to stop.
“Wait a moment. Calm down. Consider what you are about to do.”
“Get out of my way.”
“No, not until—” Marcello uttered a grunt of surprise and stumbled aside as Trick whacked him a good one with his cane. “Testa di cazzo!”
Nevada paused just inside the front door of the truck stop restaurant. Despite the hour, the place was busy, mostly truckers but some teenagers, too, and a scattering of tourists.
Even if they hadn’t been wearing sunglasses, the two big, broad-shouldered men in black suits would have stuck out like sore thumbs. The fluorescents overhead gleamed off the African American’s shaved head. The second man, the one with the ramrod-stiff military posture, looked pale by comparison with close-cropped blond hair and a milky complexion. The two sat at the far end of the counter, sipping coffee from oversize mugs and flirting with the waitress.
Praying they wouldn’t turn around, Nevada slipped back outside into the relative darkness of the parking lot. Her hands were shaking, her heart racing in reaction to her close call. Pulling up her hood—some disguise was better than none—she scanned the lot for Granger’s Jeep. Still parked fifty feet away beneath one of the security lights. No one inside, though, which was odd. Where had the two men gone?
She crossed the cracked pavement at a quick walk. Still no Kwalo m sign of Granger or the Italian. No sign of anyone aside from a couple of diesel customers near the pumps. She glanced back over her shoulder toward the restaurant. No sign of her pursuers either, thank God.
The Jeep was empty, just as she’d thought. Once again she slowly scanned the area, wondering where the two men could have gone. They hadn’t followed her into the restaurant and they weren’t over by the gas pumps. Which left what? The convenience store? The restrooms? But surely, wherever they’d disappeared to, they wouldn’t be gone for long.
She tried the passenger side door, surprised to find they’d left it unlocked. She’d been prepared to crawl underneath the Jeep and hide until the two men returned. Now she wouldn’t have to.
Without hesitation, still running on fear and adrenaline, Nevada scrambled into the backseat. She grabbed a fleece blanket from the back end, then curled up on the floorboards, pulling the blanket over herself and praying for invisibility.
How had her pursuers known she’d show up here? It made no sense.
Trick banged his cane against the logging truck’s driver’s side door. “Open up!” From where he stood, he could see the driver’s shadowed profile, but if the man heard him, he gave no indication of it. Trick reached for the door handle.
“Stop!” Marcello said. “What are you doing?”
“Hard to hear the bastard’s side of the story if he won’t even acknowledge my presence,” Trick snapped.
Marcello scowled
at him, then banged on the door himself. “Sir, open up. We need to speak with you.”
The driver ignored Marcello just as he had Trick.
“Sir?” Marcello tried again.
“To hell with it.” Trick yanked the door open.
Without the door’s support, the trucker’s body slumped over sideways, hanging halfway out of the truck’s cab and giving Trick a bird’s-eye view of the horrific wounds on the trucker’s throat. “Holy shit!” he swore.
“What is it?” Marcello took a step closer to see for himself.
The trucker’s eyes stared sightlessly into the night. His stringy gray ponytail stirred in the chill evening breeze, but that was the only movement. His mouth hung slack, revealing tobacco-stained teeth. Blood darkened the front of his faded flannel shirt.
Marcello made a disgusted noise.
Trick didn’t blame him.
“Who did this?” Marcello demanded.
“You mean, what did this?” Trick corrected him. “If I’m not mistaken, those are bite marks on his neck.”
“But how…?”
“Maybe he forgot to feed his pet pit bull. I don’t know. Solving gruesome mysteries isn’t my job. I think it’s time to call the cops.”
“Agreed,” Marcello said, sounding shaky.
Trick dug in his pocket for his cell phone.
“Wait.” Marcello grabbed Trick’s arm. “The mansion.”
Trick stared at his friend. “What does the mansion have to do with this guy’s murder? Surely, you don’t believe my ghost is responsible, do you?”
“No,” Marcello said, “but that will not stop the tabloids from creating connections. If you report this murder, you might as well forget selling the mansion.”
“But we can’t pretend we didn’t see him. We can’t just leave the body here.”
Wicked is the night Page 2